An American Werewolf In Notting Hill
by RunaroundSue
Summary: Stiles is a grad student in London, working in a bookshop to help fund his ramen habit. The bookshop belongs to William Thacker - married to movie star Anna Scott. And who is she currently making a film with? Oh yeah. The only genuine film star from Stiles' home town, Beacon Hills... Derek Hale. Can Stiles wangle it so he gets to meet his long-time crush? What do you think!
1. Chapter 1

For an American citizen of Polish extraction, Stiles is feeling pretty darn British these days. He's pretty much channelling Bertie Wooster, with a side-order of Danny Dyer. Give him a monocle, plus-fours and a broken bottle, he won't know whether to hug you or mug you. He's out-Britishing the Brits, and the Polish thing is just protective coloration, considering the local immigrant population.

Eighteen months into grad student life in London, dear old Blighty, and Stiles is still loving it. Even and despite Jeremy Kyle. Despite deep-fried Bounty bars, and fucking bizarro E4 trailers. (Motherfucking purple, so much of it. Everything _else_ about them, he can almost live with by now.)

He's perfected his MLE consonantal mangling and slurring. (And can infuriate Scott over Skype, by refusing to speak in anything else. So that twenty minutes pass by of "Fuck, man, talk English, talk _American_, talk so I can understand what you're saying!" while Stiles responds with "Bu' then we finished raaa-ownd his ends, sweet, ya get me?", following with the requisite incoherent gurgle in the back of the throat.)

He has a pie 'n' mash addiction, drinks the liquor from the jug, knows where every Witherspoons is to be avoided, and is a proud habitue of the BM reading room. (Okay, he still hasn't quite mastered the rules of soccer, and and its attendant sociological niceties. But after William used Anna's contacts to wangle him and Boyd season tickets, it seems rude not to _pretend_ to be as obsessed with the funny little pseudo-sport – they don't even need any protection, Chrissake, it's for _girls_ – as the rest of the nation.)

He's gone native, and he loves it. If he could only ship all of his family and friends over here, onto the soil that Blake and Wordsworth gibbered about ecstatically, to breathe the air that Boudicea and Mrs Thatcher and Baby Spice once breathed, then he totally would, and never want to leave.

There's just so much of it. So much to do. So much meat and material in his grad course, so much deadline frenzy. And as well as so much studying, so much _work_. He has a great transfer student agreement, an international scholarship, a special honours honorarium. But funds are still tight. If he didn't work at William's travel bookshop, then he would have trouble affording the Daddies brown sauce to put on his black pudding and fried bread at breakfast time.

But he does. Does make a point of consuming every single nasty joke food the locals persist in foisting off on him as a delicacy, then marvelling as he actually god damn _eats_ it. Does make ends meet, with his handy book-store assistant gig, ideal for grad students and for his butterfly brain, coming up with scads of trivia for every new customer.

Does work at William's travel book-shop. William _Thacker's_ travel book-shop. William, husband of Anna Thacker. Or, as she still tends to be known when the name is up in lights at premieres, Anna _Scott_.

God damn. Lucked out on _that_ one.

And he's almost as star-struck about it, five months on from getting his ass hired, as he was to begin with, even now. Most of the time. The time that isn't this time, flying early out of a seminar and hauling his ass and his Oyster card, arse over tit, and into the Tube from Euston Square to Notting Hill Gate station. He fights though ravening hordes of of merry slow-as-fuck travellers, lounging through the gates. And he finally gives up on getting in on time, slowing to a walk, and enjoying the byplay of all Limey life, through the market on Portobello Road.

Boyd isn't going to bust his ass if he's late. Martin won't even _notice_, the soft touch. Too busy hanging out with Rufus and chatting inconsequentially about fine dining and cheap wine. (That, under the guise of keeping surveillance over the reprobate, making sure no expensive tomes make their way down the placket of his pants. Their friendly neighbourhood shoplifter, every bookshop needs one. Last time, Martin made him a _coffee_, for Christ's sake. After Boyd had wrestled him to the ground in his attempt at flight, and apprehensively, distastefully retrieved _Paris In Colour_ from down his ass crack).

And Thacker, well, Thacker is barely ever on the premises any more. Or even the landmass. Too busy massaging his sputtering screenwriter/travel writer/husband to the stars gig, and keeping the missus happy via babysitting and arm-candy duties. So Stiles getting his ass busted by the tweedy English gent, the proprietor of the establishment, isn't much of a concern, either.

And turns out he's right, quite right not to be unduly worried. When he pushes open the weathered door of the shop, varnish almost disappeared off the teak after endurance of years of London downpours –_ Thacker, you're married to a movie-star, for God's sake, you can afford to get your shop-door re-varnished_ – he is not greeted by the shop's amiable patron, feet up behind the till, eye-creases expanding out like the sun's rays as he beams at Stiles, hair a-floppin' as it generally does.

No. No, it's Anna Scott who nips up behind him as he gets the door shut, bell a-ringin', and slaps his ass with a fancy-pants designer hand-bag. "Late!" she yells. "What do we pay you for, anyway, Stilinski?"

Oh Christ. Why did nobody warn him that the missus was on the premises?

It's Boyd behind the till, leaning up against the shelves behind him and grinning at Stiles like someone who's already been shanghaied by a crazy famous lady. He's clearly just happy to see it's someone else's turn on the receiving end. And Martin peers out from between the stacks, and smirks at Stiles. "Oh, deigned to bless us with your company, have you, Stiles love? So charmed and grateful. Darling Anna was just saying how much the place benefits from the little ray of sunshine that is inimitably you, when you choose to bless us. The gloom we suffer when you're absent, doing... whatever."

"Little ray of sunshine my fabulous ass!" Anna squawks, though, and stalks in the direction of the backroom. "Stiles! Latte! Now! And I want a caramel cookie! Tomika! Stanley! Guess who's babysitting this afternoon?"

And the two little Scott-Thacker demons come barrelling out from between the stacks – doing their level best to knock poor Martin over in the process, scooting between his legs on their way, like the toddler mini-demons that they are. He has to clutch at the shelves to stay upright, and bangs his head on the top shelf.

"Stiii-iii-iiiles!" li'l Tommy howls, with Stan bringing up the rear, hanging on to her shoulder for stability, and gazing up at a doomed Stiles with huge-eyed pity. And Tommy reaches out and jiggles at the knee of his khakis, worrying it insistently. "Pite Pete Potty. Now!"

Fuck. Pite Pete Potty, otherwise known as _Pirate Pete's Potty,_ these little imps' favourite picture book. He supposes it could be worse. It could have been _The Dinosaur That Pooped A Planet. _ Dinos freak him out. Too much _Jur. Park_ at a formative age.

Stiles is fucked, his afternoon is fucked, his working day is fucked. And this is the reason that he's not quite as starstruck about Anna Scott being his Boss-by-transitive-property as he was five months ago.

xxxxx

Half an hour later he's holed up in the back room with Anna, the kids and Boyd, reading Pite Pete Potty for the umpteenth time. It's okay. It's a very refined torture, but one that he's used to by now, intermittently. Martin's on till duty, and is the only one with a shot of Scotch in his coffee, since he's the only one technically working currently, and official shop manager to boot. That's how the Thacker travel book-shop rolls, and it doesn't seem to do business any harm. Although that might have something to do with its notoriety as the property of Anna Scott's husband, the tantalizing. lingering possibility for the clientèle that they might at any moment spot her on the premises.

Since the wedding, the place has gone great guns, done amazing business. All new employees are trained in the finer points of glaring at gawkers and hopefuls with no intention of buying, just hanging out on the off-chance, until they're shamed into making a purchase, just to justify their continued presence. Anna actually turns up maybe every couple of months (and doesn't exactly offer to do a stint on the till when she does), and Thacker still less frequently now. But hope springs eternal in the stalker's heart.

Anna slumps back in her chair – best one in the house, obviously, as befits her rank as a great lady, the boss's missus and an international celebrity. "Stiles, you should be a barista. Not that I'm hinting for a refill, or anything. You know, I might steal you away from Will and take you on location with me as my personal coffee-maker, errand-boy and chew-toy."

Stiles finishes off the last page, the last line of Pite Pete. He shoots a cautious glance at the kids. Tomika's torturing a spider, cupping it in her hand, letting it think it's free, cupping it again... Stan is spark out, leaning against Stiles' calf. That's a temporary reprieve. After only six re-readings, too! Result. He's free for adult conversation again. And is eager, excited. "Yeah! Really? Because I would definitely be down with that, that would be cool. Would you, like, introduce me to people? Because I swear to god I am halfway through writing that film script I told you about, the fantasy one, and my Creative Lit writing buddy thinks it's halfway decent and - "

Anna's giving him the interested, wide smile, and the intermittent nod. He's seen that somewhere before. On half of her interviews? But Boyd is laughing at him – leaning back, arms folded, quietly snickering. When he gets it, and shuts up, dejected, Anna laughs too. That nodding and smiling – when an interviewer tries flirting, or asks an egregiously unacceptable question he's never going to get an answer to in this lifetime, and she just nods and smiles him into silence, submission. That's the one.

Anna is a darling, though. When she's not being an asshole, and laughing at him. She reaches over and pats his arm, only a mite patronising. "I can't do that, sweetheart. Will gets a teeny bit possessive about his staff." She mimes exactly how possessive with thumb and forefinger, pouting the while. "Plus I need the childcare when I'm in town. Maybe when my little angels are in kindergarten." Stan burps quietly as she speaks. And Tommy picks the spider up and heads for the window. She clearly has great plans for its future, the miniature mad evil genius.

"Dreamkiller," Stiles burbles sulkily, down into the holey carpet. (These people. This shop. All the money in the world and it's still clearly an old Giles-lair, where Slayers probably come to learn to drink tea, without looking as if it's pickling their innards.) "Spirit-crusher."

"Cheer up, man," Boyd says, quite kindly. He throws the top of his fizzy Vimto bottle in Stiles' direction, and hits him too, pinging painfully on the nose. High school lacrosse has clearly paid off big-time. With the skills he's nurtured, he can assault Stiles with swingeing impunity whenever he feels like it, deadeye accuracy of aim and all. "Maybe she can hook you up with an intro. You know, to our Beacon Hills boy in Hollywood. Now that she's filming with him and all."

That right there is where time jars and stills, clotting into solidity like chronological yoghurt. Because Stiles knows that of which Boyd speaks. And a minute ago he was thinking that, although Boyd is his only buddy from back home, from the good old BHHS days... Here in Blighty, his company is actually getting pretty dispensable. At least, if all the use he's going to be is throwing bottle-tops at Stiles, and _not_ helping him persuade Anna into facilitating Stiles' future Oscar-winning screen-writing career. Not that Boyd ever has much to say, was never going to burst into eloquent speech, pleas to wring Anna's stony little heart, get her to give up a little influence and pull and completely reasonable nepotism on behalf of her hubbie's practically-adopted-son/employee. But he could have _grunted affirmatively_ when Stiles was making his pitch, at the very least.

But right now, right now he kind of _loves_ Boyd. Right now Boyd is _king_. Later, he will kiss Boyd, possibly. Will smooch the lips off his big handsome taciturn face. Erica's a continent and an ocean away, she can't do a thing about it. Just this minute, though, Stiles is leaning in towards Anna, like he's got her on the _ropes_. He has the goods on her. She has been holding out on Stiles, and that's not gonna fly, no sir.

Anna holds her ground, stares at him sceptically, much in the manner of one thinking _"Bring it on, monkey-boy. Show me whatcha got."_ Still. He raises one menacing eyebrow at her. "You're making a film with _Derek Hale?_ Are you? Is _that_ what he's saying?" He looks urgently from her to Boyd – who looks to have lost interest, and is possibly dozing off a little – and back again. "Are you making a film with Hale the Magnificent, and if so, _how did I not know about this already? _ What the hell is going on here?"

Anna makes prissy faces at him, stands and leans over to grab a snoozing Stanley, from where the small agent of destruction is still dozing against Stiles' pants-leg. "Mind the cussing, monkey-boy! My babies don't need to hear it!"

Her babies are future sociopathic red-carpet next-generation starlets, who'll be drugging and shagging their way through the headlines from the mid-teens on, Stiles privately thinks. But _whatever_. He leans forward with his hands on his knees and a beseeching face. "But aaaare you? Are you making a film with the King of Stubble? Can I watch? Can I bring him water and mop his brow after fight scenes? Can I be your body double for the kissin'?"

"Put him out of his misery, Anna," Boyd murmurs. He's occupied, retrieving Tommy from her attempt to send Spidey on a extra-window suicide mission (and haplessly join him). She wails happily in his arms, then conks out suddenly. Both the little monsters adore Boyd.

Anna relents. "Well. There are _negotiations_ happening," she concedes, and Stiles sucks in an eager breath, possibly a little pathetic. "I may be making a werewolf movie with him, although God knows when. Or why. But there are discussions going on. Ongoing. I just can't decide if I'll look good in pelt and a tail," she muses.

"What does William think?" Boyd asks, arching a beautifully sculpted brow. Then adds, "Oh, knock it off, Stiles." Stiles is doing a victory dance round the tiny back-room, already crowded with three adults, two toddler bodies and various broken down bits of office furniture. He's irrepressible, now, cannot be contained.

"Yeah, it's meant to be," Stiles says, leaping up and down a bit, unable to contain his excitement. "I missed my chance back when he was getting home-schooled in Beacon Hills, and the town hardly knew the Hales existed out in the backwoods. But now, Anna's going to invite me to celebrity shindigs, and on-set, and we're gonna strike up a beautiful friendship and you're talking to the future Mr Hale-Stilinski, here, Boyd, so don't you forget it. That right, Anna? Isn't that right? I mean, we all know that now and then you gods of the movie pantheon deign to look down and fall for a mere mortal, right? We've all got reason to know it, right? Hey, is William still cutting his toenails at the breakfast bar, or have you broken him of it yet, A?"

Anna looks up at him with a gently wondering expression, like she's wondering how fast the emergency services can get here with the strait-jacket. Her arms are full of a teeny softly whining Stanley, and she looks down at him and shakes her head, her lovely, only slightly botox'ed mouth twitching with laughter.

Stiles is nohow noway giving up, though. He gets down on one knee before her, so that she can't avoid his face, and pouts, a lot. Like a lot, lot. "You're going to make sure I meet him, at least, aren't you? Right? Right? You wouldn't make a whole movie with Derek Hale and never wangle me an invite so I get to meet him at least once? C'mon there. You don't fool me. I know you love little Stiles. Little Stiles has wormed his way into your stony starry heart, lady, admit it, admit it, go on, admit it..."

Something gives and relaxes in Anna's face, and she allows him a smile that's almost barely sarcastic. "I have a feeling it's time for your dose, Stiles. Well. Stop hassling me, and I'll bear it in mind. Maybe. As long as you promise not to land me, my agent, the film company or your university department with a sexual harassment suit. Or really go all-out stalking. It just might happen. Now shut up and go find your Adderall."

Stiles does some more cheering and whooping, and manages to properly wake both kids up. Amongst the ensuing brouhaha and hoo-ha, both employees trying to chit-chat and gee them back into a good humour, Anna's phone rings, and she takes the call.

By the time Stiles is finished calming Stanley down, jiggling him and singing a Haribo commercial, since he can't remember a lullaby off-hand, she's nearly done. "Yeah. Yes. Where are you? Okay, then, but - . Okay. See ya." And she cuts it off with a little smirk in her eyes, gazing blankly right at Stiles.

Stiles has never gone the MILF route, possibly because no cougar has ever given him the come-on, and he has enough trouble with guys and girls his own age. But he can objectively admit that, after twelve years of marriage (to a superhumanly tolerant and criminally charming feckless waster, book-store owner and dilettante), two kids, an acrimonious lawsuit with her last management company, and public rows with half her deadbeat opportunistic family, Anna Scott is still sufficiently terrifyingly beautiful to leave him half-hypnotized, along with half the other males in the world, and he would - . Aah. He would respect her deeply on all imaginable occasions, and has never had a dirty thought in relation to his employer's wife. Nope. You can't prove a _thing_.

(William Thacker is a very personable guy, who has been known, in a good mood, to shut up the shop when he blows into town, take his employees to lunch, get them rat-arsed on Pims and take them all on the Eye until one of them pukes. He has also, in Stiles' line of sight at a bar mitzvah afterparty (Stiles was running childcare and interference) where some proud parent was getting too friendly with Anna – who was perhaps getting a little bit friendly back – spiked the guy's drink, pantsed him in the gents and then turned him loose – and bewildered – in the events room. So. Deep respect, and a little bit of apprehension. And Anna herself, well, Anna has a way of cutting you into tiny pieces with the most charming words that ever diced up a nosy journalist into fricassee.)

Sometimes Anna is more scary than others. Now, she's looking at him with a gentle smile, like the first warm beams of sun in January, lighting up the dawning of the year. It sends chills of unease crawling through his gut, mercury trickles.

But all she says to him is, "Stiles, honey. I would so very much appreciate another of your wonderful lattes."

And now she's being _sweet_. Fuck, they might as well set the slasher movie chords off swooping up and down in the background and have done with it. But he sets off to the kitchen cubicle, behind the curtain, and does milady's bidding. Because he's a good little peon. And the general rule of thumb that he follows is, when your employer's lovely missis is an international film-star who could do you a solid and make you rich one day, then when she says jump you say, "Off of London Bridge ma'am? Sure thing."

Boyd jabs him in the ass as he goes. "Tea for me, loser." Boyd has gone almost as far native as Stiles at this point. He's addicted to Made In Chelsea, and will compare the merits of the Baby Made In Chelsea trailers versus Haribo adults-talk-baby ads. Not in a mocking way, either. It's probably Stiles' fault for encouraging him.

As Stiles is washing cups and setting the coffee drip going behind the shabby beaded curtain – god! - there's a ding of the bell out front, and Martin yells from behind the till. It's incoherent, but he's probably wanting to be relieved, and maybe sulking that no-one's offered him hot beverage-type refreshment. There's a lot of chuntering as Boyd and Anna shuffle out, with the odd yawp from the still uneasily dreaming kiddies. So he's alone, lonely, with the cups and the peeling plasterboard for company, fixing coffee like he's not the great future screen-writing hope of Beacon Hills. Never mind. World domination is just a little further off than he thought initially, that's all.

But Martin does pop back to keep him company, anyhow. Or to put another order in. He pokes his head around the curtain, looking no more like a questing ferrety hamster today than he normally does. Which is to say, still quite a lot. "Tea for me, love, please Stiles. And can we have a cappuccino for our customer?"

They're not a books 'n' coffee joint. God knows why not at this point, because surely every other book store on the planet is, so why are they holding out? Except for the fact that Thacker's a dinosaur, who only really keeps the shop going out of habit, hobbyism and sentimentality at this point. Who are they to argue, to look a gift horse in the mouth? To point out to him that their jobs depend on his inability to let go the sacred little bit of Notting Hill where his girl first stepped o'er the threshold, and he tipped hot coffee down her?

Or Stiles believes the story runs something like that, in any case. Little old Brit shopkeeper has a wistful thing for big movie star girl. Big movie star girl happens in his shop one day, likes the cut of his jib, and he pours hot beverage over her, for this is the mating ritual of the lesser-spotted British shop-keeper. They shag like bunnies – this much detail has never been gone into for his benefit, or in the truncated versions that hit Anna's interviews. But he assumes, because most Brits seem to shag like bunnies, and that's how they tend to put it as well. Well, that's the clean version. Then the tragic misunderstanding, the tittie shots, the long separation and the big mushy sappy ending. And the romantic fadeout.

Then twelve years. Stiles has seen a bit of those twelve years, this latter fag-end, from an outsider's occasional viewpoint. It seems to involve a fair bit of yelling about dry-cleaning, whose responsibility it is to fire the incompetent new PA, sometime somebody shagged or didn't shag the nanny, and exactly who swore in front of little Tommy darling, since now the c-word is her new favourite thing. But also: hugs, and dumbass shared jokes that they frequently insist on explaining when nobody, for sure, wants to know. And a huge morass of sentimentality about the book-shop, and England, and Notting Hill, and their courtship and their life in general. More hugs. They seem mostly happy.

Stiles wouldn't mind being them when he grows up. Either one of them. Or half of them, you know, you see.

But back to the menu as advertised – two extra drinks, fuck him, fuck Martin, and what are they doing making customers drinks too? Fuck it, is this a new sales drive thing? Do they really need it? They have Anna in the front of the shop, for fucks sake, probably posing photogenically near the window with an adorable cherub in her arms. Lingering by the aisle with the most expensive coffee-table books on Peru and Moldavia, giving stink-eye to anyone who picks one up then puts it down again. (Anna is fearsome as a saleswoman. Just saying, if she ever felt like giving up the giddy hurdy-gurdy of the Hollywood merry-go-round, then she could for sure enter the feverish cut-throat glamorous world of book-selling, and possibly even meet her sales targets within the first six months.

But he makes the drinks, and he trays 'em up, since he's weighed down, and he gets his ass out there like a good little book-seller should.

Through the elaborate 70s glittery beaded curtain, and Anna and Martin have their heads together at the till, the kids are playing helter skelter around the aisles again, and Boyd is up by the Eastern European section, explaining some heavyweight tome to what must be the favoured customer. Martin and Anna barely look at or speak to him when he hits 'em up with top of the line java, fuck 'em. He tosses the kids the egg n' bacon candy that was mouldering on the cubicle shelves – let Anna get the hyperactive benefit in half an hour when she's on the way to her swanky Ritz suite – and heads towards Boyd. He's got the customer's coffee ready to hand first, right, because, customer = guest. Maybe. Kind of.

"Sir?" he asks politely. "You're having a cappucino?" Boyd is giving him some variant of a boogly-eyed meaningful look. Mostly it seems to be made up of smirk, but not all. Customer guy has on a suit that is criminally nice, nicer even than Thacker's Savile row dandy nonsense, now he's an expensively-kept man. And this guy has the bod for it too. Nice hair, a teeny bit over-producted. Good cheek-bones, Stiles can tell even from this angle. And as he turns -

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck him. Fuck Stiles. Fuck Stiles' life. Fuck coffee. Fuck Boyd, who has a great malicious grin spread across his face.

It's Derek Hale, it's actually Derek Hale, that Derek Hale, the one and only Derek Hale.

Derek Hale, who's just watched, face immobile, as Stiles' mouth drops open, and his hand jerks up. His hand that's holding the cappuccino that he resentfully – er, lovingly – prepared just minutes before. So, where the cappuccino itself winds up is on the floor, and absent of that, largely over Stiles.

It's hot, and uncomfortable, and Stiles doesn't even care. A few drops have spattered their way onto Hale's pretty suit, too. He looks down – his inhumanly beautiful face still quite expressionless – and examines them. That's before he whips a handkerchief out of his top pocket, and has at it, wiping them away with delicate distaste, immaculately modelled lips tensing and straightening faintly.

A few moments of perfect silence ring out across the not very impressive length and breadth of the shop, while the situation sinks in. Then Martin cries out – the toe-rag – "Well done! Couldn't have done better myself!"

And Anna snickers a little bit, vile Lilith that she is. Then sings out, "It's like we just took a journey through time and space, boys. This could be the start of something beautiful. Invite me to the wedding!" She is a terrible woman, a terrible, terrible woman, and Stiles will never again devote any private time to mentally hooking her up with Lydia, plus or minus Star Trek or elf costumery.

But he can't, right now, spare the time to glare or remonstrate with her, not that it will do the least good, with her unrepentant film-starry ass. He has apologies to make, dry-cleaning recompenses to offer, repairs to make to this disastrous informal introduction to the lust of his life and –

Hale's leaving. Hasn't even spared him an angry word, a further glance. What, what the fuck, no, unacceptable. "Anyway, Anna, take a read through and let me know what you think. If we're both up to speed with the Finstock meeting it'll go better, yeah?" His voice is light and quiet, that familiar unobtrusive menace and charm still echoing through it from a handful of already classic movies from the ex-teen-star. The Beacon Hills teen star.

"See you, hon," Anna trills out like a bell, but no, Stiles isn't having this. He's after the man and at the door with him.

"Aah, I've got to apologise man, so sorry about that. Let me make you another, come and sit down, I don't want to drive you away on your first visit to a historic London landmark. I'm Stiles, and I guess Anna will have told you about me. Love all your films! I used to watch your Teen Vamp show waaaay back, man, and you should know I'm a Beacon Hills BHHS alum too so you're pretty much a legend there, there's a whole display cabinet set up to celebrate your lacrosse career and – "

If he's babbling it's justified, Stiles feels. Especially when it actually manages to halt Hale in his escape, right as he opens the door. He turns and actually gives Stiles a thorough look, up and down, which is a little bit worrying. Stiles generally feels that his major attractions reside between his ears. Which is also a worry, with some of the reactions he gets. He shuts up, now he has Hale's undivided attention. Actually, he suddenly can't talk, and can feel a vivid flush starting up round his neck and creeping up to his cheeks.

And wow, he gets a slight smile. Not the really toothy dazzling one from Hale's last but one cop buddy movie. But a little, and it warms him right through. "Cute." Hale's eyebrows are doing something that might be derisive, but isn't hostile. "I'll take a raincheck on the coffee. I don't really have time anyway, but Anna insisted. Something about keeping your hands busy and your mouth distracted." His eyes seem to stray over Stiles' mouth, too, momentarily.

"Offer him apricots in honey, Stiles," Anna yells. She's sitting on the till counter, now, openly gawping, drinking them in. Tommy is chewing the corner of her expensively hand-tatted French lace cardigan. Anna and Thacker have a whole _apricots in honey _running gag, that is never explained, but they will never shut up about it, as if it's the most hilarious thing in the world.

And Stiles is too busy glaring at her to keep his eye on the ball, to offer further inducements to Derek Hale to curl up in this little bookshop and never leave, be Stiles' love-slave and general permanent romantic love interest. There's a, "Later, Anna," from Hale's side, and the door's shutting, failing to click with the general down-at-heel don't-careness of the whole establishment. Hale's gone.

Oh, fuck it. Stiles sinks back against the door, then thinks again, turns and flips the sign to CLOSED, sinks back against it again. "He didn't even slam me into anything," he moans, to his audience in general. He does in fact have wide attention. "I poured hot coffee over him and he didn't break my face or push me into a wall or threaten me with immediate bodily harm. What is wrong with that guy? I just met Derek Hale and he was a terrible disappointment. Anna, I hate you."

Anna's only snickering, and Stiles has a feeling she doesn't take him seriously for some reason. "Don't worry, hon. You can always turn it around. Based on experience, you could have a long way to go yet."

"Why would you want him to beat you up, in any case?" Martin asks, fussily re-ordering the Americas section. "I didn't know you were up for a bit of rough trade, dear. I'll have to take you with me clubbing next weekend."


	2. Chapter 2

"Yeah, hawk my ass all over little old London town, why don't you," Stiles says moodily. "It'll be the most action I've got since I got over here, anyway."

"Liar," Anna calls out sweetly. "I heard about your drag-queen adventures last time your Beacon Hills girlfriends came over to visit. Anyway," she adds – and oh, Stiles knows that speculative look on her lovely, demonic face. Tommy looks up at her, then follows her gaze, so that's two evil womenfolk with their attention totally trained upon a hapless, hopeless, sodden Stiles. Great. Tommy gums at wet lace some more, then gives an interested gurgle. Stiles has never felt so disrespected by someone not yet two years old.

"Yes," Anna muses. "Anyway, now Derek's in town maybe your luck will change. I could give you all kinds of advice about courting a movie star. _William_ could give you all kinds of advice. You only have to ask, little Stiles-y. We could coach you on how to court him, how to stalk your prey and corner him and hunt him down until he gives in out of sheer exhaustion and boredom. There'll be no escape, Stiles. There'll be – "

Oh, hell with it. Stiles has had enough, he calls foul, red cards the whole bloody boiling of them, and he slams out for an unscheduled mental health break. They're all cackling after him, barring Stan, who's started wibbling and snivelling a bit. Anna's the loudest, Boyd the softest but still surprisingly malicious, and Martin calls out, "Don't worry, we'll hold your job open until you get back! Maybe!"

He's not worried by the threat. That, also, isn't how Thacker's Travel Bookshop rolls. He's provided those hounds of hell with some amusement, with a torture victim for the afternoon, and that constitutes about a fifth of his unofficial job description. So he stands about in the dim British afternoon sunlight for a moment or two, looking about moodily. Then on impulse, he heads off for the Greek deli two streets away. He doesn't really need more coffee, not with its current associations for him especially. But they do awesome baklava also, and he needs a little sugar. He's not getting any in any other direction, after all.

The hard-faced Greek girl on the other side of the counter – hair-netted, pink-overalled and solidly built – seems to have a bit of a thing for him, although he gets nothing off her barring his order, change and hard stares from her slabby face. He can tell because his portions are ridiculously over-the-top, enough to give him diabetes when he goes for the candy. At least somebody loves him... and he shouldn't get the coffee, when there's the perfectly good legit beans back at the bookshop, but the Greek brew is also delectable in a completely different way, especially when Yolanda – that's what the manager calls her, anyway, it's not like they're on official buddy-buddy terms – gives him extra syrup and cream in it. Which she does.

So he stands before the counter, and takes a sip, and moans a little bit. It's not the caffeine, or the scent, or even the syrup, really. It's just – heat, and comfort, and someone giving him a little extra, a little unspoken warmth. Because they've been giving him a hard time, the Thacker Travel Bookshop assholes. Nobody knows the trouble he's seen. "I've had a really crap day," he tells Yolanda, meeting her eye across the counter, as she lazily swipes a cloth over it, and her gaze lingers over the unusually empty shop premises. This is the most conversation he's ever attempted with her, pretty unusually for him, he knows. He's a little bit scared of Yolanda. She looks like she could break him with her pinkie. Even if she was doing it affectionately. Like being loved up by a lady gorilla.

"Oh yeah?" she answers, and it's not the most riveted response he's ever gotten. But he's used to pressing on in the face of indifference or, for that matter, open hostility. He is not a man who has attempted to court Lydia Martin, for a good ten years, for nothing. Life has taught him something about persistence. Maybe that quite often it gets you fuck all in the way of results, but even so.

"Yeah," he nods, taking a hungry bite out of his baclava, saliva rushing at the sticky honey-sweetness, the tooth-rotting caries guarantee of it. He catches her look glancing down his torso, and winces. It's pretty clearly not at all a _hello hotness _look, but rather a _what the fuck have you spilled down yourself and are you a homeless dude, dude? _look. It makes him itchy with embarrassment, and he rushes to explain. "Ah, yeah, good look, right? That's why I need a fix of your fine, fine, coffee, right? Because I already spilled the one I had down myself." He looks down at his good flannel shirt, his favourite, his beloved, and sighs. "Not just _myself_, either. I spilled the other half of it down a movie star."

The snort across the counter alerts him to the idea that maybe this heavyset damsel of the confectionery gods, thinks he's spinning her fairy stories in the hope of impressing her. (He has a feeling he'd have to go a lot further than telling tall tales about hanging out with celebrities, in order to impress Yolanda.)

It deflates him a little bit, not that it'd take much after the day he's had so far. Nettles him enough to have him backing up his story with further detail, too. Yolanda's just the latest in a long line of females who've found themselves not suckers for the old Stiliinski charms: but he'll show her! He is a man on the town! He has glamour, connections, and friends in photo-lens-worthy high places!

"It's true," he argues, leaning on the counter and settling in for the duration. "Hey, I _work_ for a movie-star! And that's true, you know the book-shop two rows down? It's – "

That earns him the most vigorously withering eye-roll he's ever encountered from a female – and he's had the full-strength Lydia Martin- patented brush-off before now, so he knows that of which he speaks. "Oh, shut up. I know about the Thacker book-shop, teach yer Nanna to suck eggs, why don't you? _Everybody_ round here knows about the Thackers. But Anna Scott doesn't _own_ it. She only married the dude, right?" Yolanda is getting drawn in despite her best efforts, Stiles can see it too. Moving in closer, straightening and rearranging the fancy cakes on the counter-stand as an excuse to linger and loiter, her meaty fore-arms flexing as she folds them.

She could take him in those mighty hands and break him, and he almost chokes on a crumb of baclava at the thought. But not enough to shut him up, or silence his protests. "Hey, it makes no difference," he asserts, and he might still be chewing but he's got a point to make. "I _hang out _with movie stars, that's an undisputed fact, right? I think you'll find you've just conceded it. And if I'm hanging out with Anna Scott, why wouldn't – "

Here he pauses, because Goddamn, this is big news. He gives her a sly grin, her face still slabbily sceptical and unimpressed. Maybe amused. If Lydia put on forty extra pounds, was of Greek extraction and wore a pink overall and a hairnet, then maybe...

"Why what?" she prompts him. The doorbell dings, and a couple of middle-aged women come in, fatly tired and bearing shopping bags, and start assessing the olives and eyeing up the hams. She takes fuck-all notice of them. 'Cause he's reeled her in, right? Stiles Stilinski, master storyteller: his future screenwriting Oscar awaits.

Ooh, Stiles swaggers a bit as he leans showily on the counter (and she whips the cake stand swiftly away from all contamination.) And he flings a hand out into the air, punctuation as he announces, "Oh, I dunno, why _wouldn't_ Derek Hale be hanging out with us there at the same time, huh? Yeah, you heard right! _Derek Hale!_"

She gets the thousand watt benefit of his perkiest grin, but she's still looking unimpressed, and probably frankly disbelieving. And he sags a bit at a sudden thought, and the counter's a bit slippy with some synthetic cream, and his elbow slides right off it so that he totters. Frankly, he probably looks a bit of a fool. "Except he's the one I spilt my coffee down." And he gestures at the damp wreck of his t-shirt. "I don't think I made the greatest first impression ever."

"Really?" Apparently a tale of disaster and woe makes a movie-star anecdote that much more believable.

Stiles sags further, and droops his head down to the counter. The middle-aged women are tapping on the other end of it, and giving Yolanda considerable bitch-face. She pretty clearly doesn't give a fuck. "Yeah. As opening gambits go, I don't think he thought much of my courtship rituals." He thinks back to Hale's face, as he looked down at the offending splatters on his bespoke Savile Row tailoring. Disinterest? Disdain? Demented fury? Some other d-word? The only D he'll be getting near, when it comes to Derek Hale, in any case. Clearly.

The other customers have edged closer, and are crowding him out at the end of the counter. "You want to sell anything today, love?" one enquires tartly of Yolanda. They're both getting bitch-face at this point, and Stiles sighs and picks up his coffee, holds on tighter to the remains of his candy. It's all he's got to comfort him, right now. "Anyway, better go. See if I've still got a job, or if they're letting me go, for hurling boiling beverages at famous customers. Catcha next time I need a sugar fix."

"Yeah, laters," Yolanda agrees. And he turns back as he opens the door, when she calls out after him. "You know, Tom Hiddlestone comes in here sometimes, when he's filming local. If you've struck out with Hale you might as well hang around here now and then, see if you can pick up another film star. You know, if that's your thing." And she snickers at him, and he gives her a smirk and a very polite finger – only the Brits can do that, but he's learning – as he steps backwards down the two stone steps at the deli entrance.

So that's one step back, two, three – No. It _should_ be three. But it actually goes one step, two, er, oops, what, _bash_. Because there's something, or someone, in the way, as he goes for step number three, and it protests strongly as he stumbles around it, tries to turn around while being frustrated in that final step onto the pavement, and – oh, how neat, the parabola described through the air, a beautiful arc indeed! - _tips his coffee all over_ whoever it is who's been inconsiderate enough to get in his damned way.

Oh, Christ, Stiles could actually literally cry, as he turns – second time today? Second time today! And that's even before his eyes fall on the poor unfortunate who's the unwilling, unwitting recipient of his generosity.

Well. Heavily lacquered, sharply cut black hair. Heavy on the stubble. Symmetrically handsome to an almost ludicrous degree. Eyes that sparkle as if they were poured full of glitter, all colours, a kaleidoscope of surreal landscapes.

It's just not Stiles' day, and he accepts that, now. As well as his doom, probably. It's Hale, Derek Hale. _Again_. And he doesn't look nearly as tolerant of the village idiot that is Stiles, as he did the _first_ time he got a caffeinated deluge off of him.

It's also actually much more of a deluge, than the few spattering drops that he'd got away with last time, taking the worst of the downpour himself. It's all over Hale's suit jacket. It's on his crisp white shirt, which isn't so very crisp any more. Nor so very white, either. Stiles feels pretty lucky that he didn't just go the whole hog and scald the guy all over his preternaturally handsome face. That would have been a mind-boggling insurance claim, for sure. That would have dwarfed the standard movie-star ridiculous insurance policies, for their asses and hair and toes and who knows what. That would have run into the _millions_.

And Stiles is vaguely aware that he's actually babbling these ridiculous thoughts out, as he whips out some clean tissues from his hoodie pocket and – Christ, is he actually losing his mind? - tries to _dab_ at some of the damage he's done, tries to minimise the disaster. But he doesn't get the chance, of course: instead, Hale grabs the tissues off him, and very slowly begins to wipe at his own garments, his own face. (Oh Christ again, so Stiles didn't quite manage to entirely miss the target there. Oh hell and...)

And he glares at Stiles as he does it, while Stiles' babble winds down into an open-mouthed silence. They're staring at each other. Oh God, he has tried to _scald Derek Hale's beautiful face_ and destroy a million dollar movie studio property. And now he is trying to_ stare Derek Hale out_. Stiles has lost his mind.

He jerks his head back and away, wildly, and he scans through the ridiculous nature of what he's just been blurting out. He thinks he's probably safe – safe from total humiliation, in any case. He doesn't think he mentioned the 'preternaturally handsome' bit. And as he re-opens his mouth for a fulsome – and hopefully more considered – apology, Hale gets in ahead of him. "Have you got some vendetta going?" he snaps out, giving Stiles a mean glare out of the corner of one eye, and flicking a glance down the street, then, fast, probably to check for paparazzi, or public peeps with their smartphones out. But the street is unusually deserted, and he's probably safe for the minute. "I mean," he adds, hopelessly fingering at the – yep, sodden, Stiles has drenched him all right – fabric of his shirt, "_once_ was okay. Well, no, not _okay_. But I didn't feel like you were _targeting_ me, or trying to put me in the local burns unit or something. Did Anna put you up to this?" He looks half-serious as he stares at Stiles. Stiles has heard things about Anna's on-set rep as a prankster, so it's not completely surprising.

He's not surprised. He's just horrified, that's all. Stiles slaps his hands over his face, and moans. "Oh, God, no, of course not. And please, please, I am so godforsaken sorry I could just roll over and die right now. Look." Stiles sucks in a great big deep breath, and tries to be calm, and tries not to hyperventilate. He tries to not even _think_ about hyperventilating. One peep at Hale's shirt – and, just as a by-product and accidental bonus, at his beautiful and manly chest, which is heaving with irritation, Stiles thinks – tells him that the damage is just as bad as he thought, uh oh. "Look," he repeats. "I live really close – it's only one street away. It's Will's old house, actually – they let it me for a peppercorn rent, in exchange for me opening up and locking up and generally being on call for alarms going off and all that jazz."

"How nice for you. If you'll excuse me now. Unless you have any other hot beverages you feel like hurling at me," Hale says stonily. And he turns away, looks up the street and is clearly ready to find some better, Stiles-free place.

"No!" Stiles yelps, and makes to grab at his shoulder, then mercifully pulls back, before actually laying hands on Derek Hale. Instead he dances down the steps ahead of him, and can feel the pleading expression on his face. "What I mean is, it's handy, if you want – you could have a quick wash and brush up, I, uh, actually there are some of Will's old suits in a wardrobe, you could borrow – "

He is, officially, a blithering idiot. Maybe it's this country that's doing it to him. Maybe he's turning into Bertie Wooster or sum'thin'. He flings his hands out wide in supplication, looks from side to side, and he doesn't even know what he's expressing beyond helplessness, what to say.

But it must be enough to make Hale take pity on him, so yay to that. "All right," Hale says. He looks reluctant, and a little constipated, and suspicious. But even so... Stile wonders if he heard right.

"Really, man?" he queries. Because, hell, did Derek Hale just _agree to come home with him_? (Not like _that_, maybe. But even so.)

"Don't make me regret it. More than I do already," Hale says grumpily, and pushes past him roughly enough to jog at Stiles' shoulder. So what Stiles does, Stiles stands and gawps _after_ him for a moment, on the bottom step, and then inside the deli glass door, something catches his eye.

The 'something', that's Yolanda. Who is grinning from ear to ear of her round shiny face, and giving him a double thumbs up. Her eyes are wide and stunned enough to tell him that, up until this moment, she didn't believe word one of his Derek Hale shaggy dog story. But now she does. _Now_ she does, all right.

He falls off the step, while grinning and giving her a thumbs-up and a victory hands-aloft into the bargain. But no harm done, only a scratch or two, and Hale looking impatiently back for him like he's touched in the head. Which Stiles definitely isn't. Maybe a touch dazzled and glamoured, at most.

"So," Stiles says, falling into step beside him, and stealing a quick sideways glance. Man, _glowering and irritable_ is a good look on Derek Hale. Although, to be fair, there are probably a very small number of looks that aren't. "Werewolf film with Anna, huh?" Because he is riveted. Because this, _this_, he has to get the skinny on. Maybe before anyone else in the whole wide world. Or at least, before anyone on the internets.

Hale doesn't seem all that impressed by his conversational gambit. With another sideways look, he mutters, "Looks like it." He also looks like a man who's contemplating the prospect of having his teeth pulled out with pliers, sans anaesthetic. Which, what?

"Jeez, man," Stiles says, dancing around in front of him and walking backwards, and only marginally failing to avoid a couple of chavvy kids, who hoot and hurl abuse at him as they continue their little-ruffian way for the next two minutes. "How you suffer, huh? I mean, I'm not saying that Anna isn't a demon from hell, when she's experiencing her _own_ lunar cycle and hasn't had her morning coffee, but strictly on the aesthetic front? That's a dish, man. She is a _dish_. You have to admit it, come on. I mean, maybe you're buddy-buddy with old William, in which case I understand that you might prefer to maintain a stoic and manly silence on the subject. But just between you and me, dude – come on. Anyone would, right? If she crooked her little pinkie at me, and summoned me to her bedchamber – I mean," Stiles adds, "after ordering to have me bathed and perfumed – and deloused, of course – then? Well," he considers. "I'd be too frightened to even _think_ about saying no, right? You get me?"

From the roll of Hale's eyes, Stiles isn't sure exactly _what_ he gets. But all he gets out of him is, "I'm not going to start discussing the aesthetic merits of my co-stars with you, _Genim_."

"What!" Stiles is, let's be honest, a little freaked. And maybe a little excited. Derek Hale knows his name! His real name! (His awful real name, or the anglicized version – the one that all his friends, family, co-workers, cohort, and the rest of the planet are forbidden ever to use, when referring to or addressing him. But even so.) "Where did you even get a hold of my name? Wh – What? How? Are you, like, _stalking_ me?" The idea is novel, and not unpleasant. He makes cut-the-crap moves with his hands in the air, demanding the truth. (And still walking backwards, leading the way to his humble little North London home. The fact that he barely misses a lamp-post as he walks, pales in significance compared to the fact that_ Derek Hale knows his name._ And has hung out at his place of work. And, shortly after, turned up outside the deli of which Stiles is a frequent patron, as anyone at the Thacker bookshop could have told Hale.)

"_Are_ you stalking me?" he asks, wide-eyed at the notion. It's a lot less accusing, than it is frankly thrilled. Hale looks less pissed than amused, for the first time: but all he does is to snort faintly, and make a _ts-ts-ts-ts_ sound with his sweet sweet bunny-teeth. Stiles takes that to mean, 'as if!' They keep on walking: it's an enchanted stroll, by now, for Stiles. He hops into place, walking in stride and right-way-round with Hale, and continues his harangue, arms a-gesticulating.

"Come on, man, don't deny it," he says, and the grin on his face is close to splitting it in half. "You copped a load of _this_," and here he indicates his own wiry and lanky form, "in the shop, and then you turn up on the deli doorstep just as I'm scarfing down Greek candy?"

Hale stops, and looks at him. From amused, he's gone to unreadable: eyes hooded, mouth pensive. "Yes," he says.


End file.
